Don’t walk by my laundry stand,
I’ve just hung a thread.
Don’t send me a text – I’ll climb
between the lines to look for you.
Don’t use that still eye on me,
I’ll lose my rest, this incubation.
Don’t make shadows play
trickery in the space I’ve made
or wet me with cold love. I need
to stay dry, grow – hairy and wild.
Stay away from this chalice bath,
where I think like a statue.
Webs – fresh casts. Don’t flick
them into non-existence, keep me
on a thin path. I want to rest, be centred,
dream in the hexagon net with my catch.
I’ve done enough running. Keep your knocks
and traps, holding up my body for inspection
in the wine glass. Yes, it’s a safe dome,
this capture, for you, me – curled
to a circle, afraid of my own legs.
Stop – at the door, even your breath will
kill my silk, your musings of tonight
or tomorrow night, for our death-dance.
